


My Good Friend Sherlock

by mirajanihiggins



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Happy Ending, Harvey homage, Humor, John Watson is a war vet, Sherlock is a pooka, john is an alcoholic, people think John's crazy, so is Harry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-26
Updated: 2017-07-30
Packaged: 2018-12-07 08:56:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11620212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirajanihiggins/pseuds/mirajanihiggins
Summary: John Watson has recently returned from the war, injured and possibly mentally compromised. How will everyone in his orbit react to John's new friend, who just so happens to be invisible...





	1. Chapter 1

“He’s quite mad, you know,” she said, in a conspiratorial whisper.

 

“I think he’s charming,” the other woman responded.

 

Harry snorted. “That’s because you don’t know him very well. He’s just back from the war, after all.”

 

Clara frowned. “So, what’s that supposed to mean? That he’s cuckoo? Lost the plot? A candidate for Bedlam?”

 

Harry rolled her eyes at her girlfriend’s naivete. “Oh, Clara. You always try to see the best in people but, you know, he… _drinks_.”

 

“So do you, Harry, but I let it go, ‘cause you’ve got issues from your past. So does he, I’m sure,” Clara retorted.

 

Heaving a huge sigh, Harry looked out the window to avoid _that_ little bit of truth. “Not the point, sweetie. John…has a friend.”

 

Clara clapped her hands in pleasure. “Well, good for him! That’s the best thing…”

 

Harry stopped her with a look. “He’s invisible.”

 

Clara froze in disbelief. “What?”

 

Harry rolled her eyes again. “He’s in-vis-i-ble,” she enunciated. “And six-foot-tall. And…a rabbit.”

 

“A rabbit,” Clara repeated, dubiously.

 

Harry shrugged. “Well, he has long rabbit ears, at least. Other than than, he’s human-ish. And brilliant. A genius, according to John. Oh, and he solves crimes.”

 

“Solves…crimes…”

 

“And John blogs about it.”

 

“Oh, God, Harry, I didn’t realize…”

 

“Well, hello, there, Clara! Nice to see you! And you, too, Harry, of course!” John said, chirpily, as he entered his sister’s parlor. “Lovely day! Think I’ll go out for a walk in the park!”

 

Harry shot Clara a look and said, “Hi, John. Will you…be taking Sherlock with you?”

 

John beamed. “Well, of course I will!” He looked up to his right. “Wouldn’t do to leave Sherlock alone, you know. He can get so moody, sometimes!” He leaned in and said, in a conspiratorial whisper, “He’s even worse when he’s bored. Then he gets into all kinds of trouble!” He turned sharply back to his right. “It’s true, and you know it! Don’t give me that look!”

 

Clara’s eyes grew large as Harry gave her a “You see, I told you!” look. John didn’t seem to notice.

 

“I’ll be heading out now. See you later!” he said, all cheerfulness as he strode toward the door.

 

Clara spared Harry a look. “You’re right, he’s nuts.”

 

Harry nodded sagely. “Told you!”

 

>>>***<<<

 

“Aw, geez, ‘ere ‘e comes again,” Sgt. Sally Donovan moaned as she saw John Watson crossing the intersection toward them.

 

Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade shushed her with a look. “Let it go, Sally. He’s harmless. In fact, sometimes he’s actually been _useful_ on some of our cases. Just because he’s a bit odd…”

 

“’E’s a freak, is what ‘e is,” Sally noted as she turned her back to John and Lestrade as the latter came up to them.

 

“Morning, Lestrade! Lovely day for a murder, isn’t it?” John observed with an odd smile, as if he had just heard a funny joke.

 

Lestrade smiled back while Sally walked away without a backward look. She walked up to Anderson, who was busy collecting evidence at the site of a hit-and-run they had been called out to investigate. “Freak’s back. Don’t know how Lestrade tolerates ‘im. ‘E gives me the creeps.”

 

Anderson nodded, absently. “Yeah, know what you mean. Weird little guy. Always talking to himself.”

 

“Don’t know why Lestrade listens to ‘im. Just because sometimes ‘e says something that works out…”

 

“So, taking a walk today, John?” Lestrade inquired, politely. “Did you bring Sherlock with you?”

 

John looked mildly affronted. “Of course, I did. You know Sherlock, can’t resist a murder. Had to come right on over when he saw you.”

 

“Mmph. Can’t really say it’s a murder, John. See, there’s nothing here…”

 

“Dual-tire skid marks leading up to the body; not stopping skids, _acceleration_ skids. Driver worked out the tangential forces so that the strike would drive the body into the wall, so if the accident didn’t kill him, the impact of his head on the wall would. Smart. This is somebody who has done this before. Has a good grasp of mathematic, might even play a bit of snooker, so he understands the angles of impact. Didn’t stop, so not a robbery. This was personal. Don’t bother looking for the car, it’s probably already been ditched nearby and was stolen just for this purpose. Owner will be someone with an airtight alibi, may have already reported it stolen. This is meant to send a message, Inspector.”

 

Lestrade listened in growing wonder and admiration. He noted, in passing, that the only time John calls him “Inspector” is during one of his deductive episodes. Otherwise, it’s just “Lestrade”. “How did you get all that from one look at the scene?” he queried.

 

John shrugged. “Not me. Sherlock. He loves this stuff. Tells me all his best deductions and I write them down. You should be writing this stuff down too, Lestrade. Sherlock is seldom wrong.” He looked up to his right. “Come on now, Sherlock. You’ve told Lestrade what you wanted him to know. It’s too lovely a day to spend it here. Let’s go to the zoo; you can deduce the animals!” He nodded at Lestrade. “See you later, Lestrade. I’m sure Sherlock will have more to tell you once he’s thought it over.”

 

With a nod of his head, John Watson sauntered away, leaving Lestrade with a slack jaw and a pad full of notes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Was Sherlock reality, or a figment of John's imagination?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This tale is almost completely stream-of-consciousness, just for fun. Also, for fun, watch the movie "Harvey" with James Stewart, from which I am drawing inspiration.

John often liked to stop off at the pub for a pint or two. Sherlock never drank, of course; muddled his mind too much, John would say. Had to keep it clear for deducing and reasoning. The barkeep just smiled and handed him the next pint, nodding to the empty seat beside John. “He’s always so pleasant,” John would observe.

 

Sometimes he would be joined by Mike Stamford, a fellow medical student ‘way back in the day. They would chat together and Mike would ask what Sherlock thought about the latest unsolved case on the telly. John was always happy to explain Sherlock’s chain of logic to an appreciative mind. Mike would nod and smile, toast John and Sherlock, and then be on his way with a slight shake of the head.

 

“John. There you are,” Harry said, hands on hips. “I’ve been looking all over for you. It’s late, you should be getting home.” She pursed her lips as she stared pointedly at him.

 

John looked up and smiled. “Hello, Harry. Care to join us? Sherlock was going on about that case today. He says…”

 

Harry threw her hands up in the air in frustration. “You know, John, I don’t give a good god damn about what Sherlock has to say! You stay with _me_ , not _him_. It’s time for you to get back and go to bed!”

 

“Hmm? What’s that?” John asked the empty chair beside him, then turned back to Harry. “Sherlock said that you should avoid drinking rye, since it obviously makes you bloated and cranky…”

 

“THAT’S IT!” Harry shouted as she grabbed John by the arm and tried to bodily drag him out of his chair. Everyone in the bar turned around to watch. “I will _not_ tolerate you…”

 

Somehow, she lost her grip on John and fell backwards, tripped up by a chair behind her. She fell, arse over teakettle, onto the sticky, stinking carpet beside the next table over, cussing like a sailor. No one moved to help her up. They all just looked at John, who watched it all unfold.

 

“You _know_ Sherlock doesn’t like it when you lay your hands on me like that, Harry,” he commented blandly. “You might do well to remember that.”

 

“Bugger him! And _bugger you_ , you drunken sot!” Harry screamed in frustration as she regained her feet. “Go sleep in the park, you loser! I’m _done_ with you _and_ your fucking invisible friend!” She stormed out, accompanied by applause from the patrons of the pub, who all rather _liked_ John.

 

John watched her go, then turned to the seat beside him. “Well, there she goes again. Well, we _both_ know what she’s like to live with…” He nodded and pursed his lips. “Yes, you’re right. She can be _quite_ rude.” He picked up and finished his pint, leaving a nice tip for the barmaid. “Well, let’s go find a nice bench somewhere, Sherlock. We can wait until she cools down.”

 

As he got up to put on his coat, the barkeep came over and said, “Is there anything I can do for you, John? Do you need a place for a kip?”

 

Slinging on his old leather jacket, John waved off his kind offer.”No, no need, Nigel. She’ll calm down and I can go back to my room. In the meantime, it’s a lovely night and Sherlock and I can just sit and talk.” He stopped, then added, “But, thank you for your offer. It’s people like you make the world a better place,” he said as he gave the barkeep a pat on the arm in passing.

 

The barkeep smiled as John passed out into the night, stopping only to hold the door open and wait for no one to pass through. He looked down at the couple at the next table. “Nice guy. Back from the war. Little bit barmy, but never causes any trouble.” They smiled and nodded in understanding as Nigel returned to his haven behind the bar.

 

John turned up the collar of his jacket against a sudden stiff breeze and laughed. “Yes, I guess I am taking after you a bit, Sherlock. But I don’t have your cheekbones to show off!” He ambled along the road, talking amiably about this and that.

 

The next block on, he was accosted by Detective Inspector Lestrade, who was driving by in a panda car. He leaned out the window and hailed him. “Oi, John! What are you up to now?”

 

John smiled amiably. “Just taking a walk until my sister calms down. You know how it is, Lestrade; she’s not much fond of Sherlock, though, for the life of me, I can’t imagine why.”

 

Lestrade nodded. “Got a minute? New case just opened up, or maybe it’s an old one? Another hit-and-run, not too far from the one this morning.” He jerked his head directionally. “Maybe your investigator friend can help us?”

 

After nodding his head appraisingly, John turned to his right and said, “What do you think, Sherlock? Interested?” He waited a moment, then grinned broadly as he turned back to address Lestrade. “Yes, he’s most enthusiastic about it. Serial murder; always something to look forward to, he says.” He turned back quickly, with a puzzled look on his face. “Christmas? No, Sherlock, it isn’t…Oh, I see what you mean! Well, only _you_ would look at it that way!” He turned back again. “We are at your disposal, Lestrade. Shall we get to it?”

 

Lestrade opened the door and waited until John waited until his companion had seated himself, and then John clambered in. He raised one eyebrow but said nothing. Crazy or not, John Watson seemed to have some sort of gift that Lestrade was only too willing to make use of.

 

>>>***<<<

 

The car eased up to the curb and discharged its human cargo. John looked around at the controlled mayhem of the scene. “You’re gonna love this one, Sherlock,” he murmured.

 

Donovan looked over before snapping her head back around and muttering to Anderson, “Oh, God, the freak’s ‘ere again.”

 

Anderson looked over, caught John’s eye and smiled emptily. “He’s not so bad. As long as he stays out of the way of the professionals.”

 

Donovan snorted in contempt. “Don’t know why Lestrade called ‘im in. Waste of time,” she declared as she walked away.

 

Lestrade, walking close behind John, said, “Well, here’s the crime scene. What we seem to have…”

 

“Shh,” John admonished, holding up a hand. “No details. Sherlock likes to look everything over on his own first. Then he’ll tell me what he thinks.” He took a few steps forward before apparently almost bumping into nothing. “Oh! So sorry, Sherlock, but you shouldn’t stop so fast…”

 

Lestrade waited. John had a running conversation with someone, nodding and taking notes. Occasional outbursts of “Brilliant!” or “That’s amazing!” punctuated his one-sided conversation. Everyone in the area watched in consternation as John moved around, pointing out various things to no one in particular.

 

Donovan came over to Lestrade and, just as she opened her mouth, he said, “Save it. I know how this looks, but, loony as it may seem, this man always seems to come through.” Sally’s jaw closed with a snap as she stood beside him, waiting, her face the dictionary image of “You’ve _got_ to be kidding me.”

 

Finally, John shook his head and stood up, flipping his notebook shut. “That was…amazing, as usual! You make me feel like a low-grade moron when you’re like this!” He listened, then blushed lightly. “Thank you, but I wouldn’t be able to match you at your own game!” He looked back at Lestrade and said, “They’re waiting. Shall we?” as he ushered someone invisible toward the policemen, one hand on an invisible back.

 

A pleasant smile on his face, Lestrade asked, “Well? Has Sherlock found out anything?”

 

John’s head bobbed up and down. “Oh, yes. He’s amazing, really!”

 

Sally’s eyes rolled almost audibly. John looked to his right and stated, “Sherlock, that’s rude! You don’t mention that someone’s been cheating on her boyfriend without more proof than that!” Sally blanched as John listened and continued, “Oh, is _that_ the way it is? With the pathologist? Really? Well, …” As he turned back to speak to them both, Donovan suddenly excused herself and virtually ran from the scene.

 

“What was _that_ all about?” Lestrade asked, stunned by his lieutenant’s unusual reaction.

 

John shrugged. “Sherlock says she’s having a fling with somebody named Molly at St. Barts. Says he can smell the formaldehyde on her clothes, as well as the marks over her bony prominences from the drain holes on the autopsy pallets…”

 

“Uh, never mind,” Lestrade stammered. “Forget I asked. I _really_ don’t need to hear…by the way, why did you…”

 

“Not me. Sherlock,” John confided. “I’m just an old army doctor; I wouldn’t know about _any_ of this. Sherlock’s the genius, and he doesn’t like it when people are impolite to me, so he deduces them until they leave.” He smiled up to his right. “He’s _always_ been such a good friend.”

 

“Well, anyway…what is his last name, again?” Lestrade inquired. “Just for the record, you understand.”

 

“Of course!” John grinned brightly. “His last name is Holmes. He also has a brother named Mycroft. He’s with the government, you know,” he added, conspiratorially.

 

Lestrade nodded. “Okay, good to know. So, tell me what Sherlock found.”

 

For the next hour, John explained Sherlock’s findings to Lestrade, occasionally consulting his notebook. Once again, Lestrade was dumbfounded by the brilliant observations and deductions of this small, inconspicuous man. The tiniest, most obscure facts dovetailed in perfectly with the gross findings already delivered by the evidence team.

 

“And, Inspector, the car was of a similar type as the last one, but of a different color, as you can notice from the flecks of paint left behind on the curb and wall where the car rebounded while making his getaway. Green, this time, not blue. Level of the fender and bumpers are the same, and there’s a bit of a nick in the wheel well that left a distinctive mark on the victim’s body…”

 

“Uh, John, could you make me a copy of your note and fax it over to Scotland Yard?” Lestrade asked, his eyes sliding past John to another figure striding toward him.

 

“Of course,” John agreed as he flipped his pad shut and pocketed it. “I’ll do that tomorrow. Will that be all, Lestrade?”

 

Lestrade was all awkward smiles as he turned John around and escorted him past the crime tape. “Of course, John. I’ll look forward to them, but right now…” He gave him a little push to send him on his way. John waved and strode off.

 

“Who was _that_ , and what was he doing at an active crime scene?” the Chief Superintendant blustered as he approached Lestrade.

 

“Oh, ah, nothing, sir. Just a possible witness. Have to get them while the memory’s fresh,” Lestrade stated nervously.

 

“Yes, well, do it _outside_ the crime scene next time, Lestrade. So, what have you uncovered so far? My higher-ups are getting on my case about this. They want it solved. The people are getting nervous, thinking there’s some mad killer driving around waiting to strike and innocent pedestrian,” he growled.

 

Lestrade nodded. “Of course, Chief Inspector. I’ll look right into it,” he promised. The man grunted and walked away.

 

Lestrade watched him go over to Donovan and Anderson, who would almost certainly complain about the strange little man with his invisible friend. “Holmes,” he thought. “Sherlock Holmes. _That’s_ something to follow up on. Maybe it would give me a leg up on this man…”

 

To hell with going home. His wife wasn’t there anyway; she’d swanned off somewhere with her latest conquest. No, back to the office to do a little research…


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade wants answers, Mycroft wants a meeting, and John has to deal with a temperamental Sherlock...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This wasn't meant to be angsty, but sometimes the characters hijack your storyline...

The monitor in the dark office threw a sickly light into Lestrade’s face as he pored over website over website. He hoped, with each new search, that he would find something— _anything_ —that would confirm his suspicions, only to be disappointed time and again.

 

_Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes_ …. Lestrade wondered why John would come up with such an unusual name like that? Even came up with a brother with an equally-unusual name; what was it again? Mycroff? In a position in the British Government? Weird…

 

New search. _Mycroff Holmes_. No, nothing there…wait, try _Mycroft_ …there! Gotcha! One Mycroft Holmes, only contact at the Diogenes Club. Lestrade snapped his fingers and decided, on the spot, to pay this Mycroft Holmes a visit later that morning.

 

At the crack of 9 AM, Lestrade appeared at the doorway of the infamous Diogenes Club. He’d heard about it for years, but it was almost impossible to enter, even with a warrant. Lots of high-ups stayed there, the rumor went, and they paid a pretty penny for that sanctuary. He knocked firmly, determined to find a way of entering this impressive structure.

 

The door opened smoothly and Lestrade beheld a tall, wheezened man with white hair, impeccably dressed in a morning suit. As Lestrade opened his mouth to speak, the old man held a finger to his lips and indicated he should follow him inside. Lestrade, taken somewhat aback, did as he was bade.

 

As they walked through the huge rooms and vast hallways, he noticed a multitude of men, in high-quality chairs and couches, all sitting silently, reading, or napping. “Why…” Lestrade started to say, but the old man shushed him again and ushered him into a large, elegantly-furnished room before closing the door.

 

“Forgive me, sir. My name is Wilder. How may I help you, sir?” the oldster asked, courteously, his hands clasped in front of him.

 

Lestrade, still taken aback from the strangeness of it all, stammered, “My name is Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade,  I’m trying to get in touch with a Mycroft Holmes, who seems to have a contact address here.” He whipped out his police ID and held it up.

 

The old man blinked in recognition. “Of course, sir. He does visit here frequently.”

 

Lestrade hitched a thumb over his shoulder. “Why is it so quiet out there, but we can talk in here?”

 

Wilder smiled congenially. “All our members are important men, men of power and influence. They come here for a bit of peace and quiet, for privacy, for national security. Talking is not allowed in any of the rooms but this one.”

 

“Ri-i-ght,” Lestrade nodded, still confused but ready to move on. “Is there any way I could contact Mr. Holmes?”

 

“Of course, sir,” Wilder bowed. “I will contact him and have him come down to speak with you. You are lucky to have come at a time when he is visiting us.  I will return with him shortly; if, that is, he cares to speak with you.”

 

Wilder exited the room, leaving Lestrade alone in palatial splendor. He walked around and admired the furniture, the artworks, and marveled that so much wealth and culture could be kept out of sight of the common man-on-the-street.

 

“Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

 

Lestrade whirled around, almost guiltily, to behold a tall, large-framed man, dressed impeccably a in bespoke suit, with a thinning hairline. He sported an umbrella, which he seemed to use partially as a cane. His patrician face was cool and composed.

 

Clearing his throat, Lestrade said, “I am conducting an investigation into a person of interest, and your name came up in relation to that person.”

 

Mycroft’s eyebrow rose skeptically. “That is very doubtful, Inspector. I socialize with _no one_ these days, as my work keeps me _constantly_ involved in affairs of state.”

 

“Well, sir, if you could just answer a few questions for me…”

 

Mycroft all but sneered. “ _No_. I have no time for your ‘fishing expedition’…”

 

Lestrade took in a deep breath and blurted out, “Who is Sherlock Holmes?”

 

_That_ did it. Mycroft’s composure shattered in an instant. He almost staggered as he made his way to an oversized chair, obviously made for his generous proportions. He took multiple deep breaths as he sat, some of the color that had fled his face returning little by little. Finally, he looked up, with haunted eyes.

 

“Where did you hear that name?” he gasped. “I demand to know!”

 

Lestrade sat down in a chair opposite Mycroft. “Who is he? And what is he to you, sir?”

 

Mycroft looked down at the expensive Persian rug before answering. “Sherlock…was my brother. My younger brother.”

 

Lestrade’s ears perked up. “ _Was_ , sir?”

 

Mycroft nodded, sadness worn like a shroud around his shoulders. “Yes, _was_. He was a brilliant young man; not so intelligent as I, but still a verifiable genius. He was a master chemist, but he ran afoul of drugs in his younger days, and he, unfortunately…succumbed to them.”

 

“ _Succumbed_ , sir?” Lestrade responded, sharply. “In what way?”

 

His umbrella ferrule rapped the floor smartly as Mycroft shouted, “He’s DEAD, sir! I found him _dead_ in an alley from a particularly bad batch of heroin! I had to tell our parents that their youngest child was dead on a slab at the mortuary! I have carried that grief—and responsibility--with me for _years,_ and here you come, bandying his name around…” He looked up, sharply. “Where did you hear that name?”

 

Lestrade considered his next move. He had obviously caused a situation he had not anticipated when he arrived at the club. Should he continue, or…?

 

Another rap of the umbrella. “Well, sir? Will you answer me? I deserve to know! I have taken great precautions that I should not hear that name ever again, as I knew that it would all but kill me!”

 

A gulp of fear, and Lestrade admitted, “I…I met a man who has a friend. A friend with the name Sherlock Holmes.”

 

Lestrade thought Mycroft was going to faint right then and there. The man rang a nearby bell and Wilder appeared.

 

“Brandy,” Mycroft ordered, and Wilder leapt into action, supplying a snifter of the amber liquid in record time. Mycroft bolted it down, coughing slightly as the acrid liquid slid down his throat. After a few heavy breaths, he said, “Who is this man?”

 

“John Watson. Doctor John H. Watson, to be precise. An army medic from Afganistan, went straight into the military after graduating from med school.”

 

Mycroft frowned. “I know of no John Watson, doctor or no. How could he know Sherlock? Sherlock was a drug addict, living on the back streets of London. He only survived because of a trust fund. He couldn’t possibly have been involved with someone like him, unless he’d met him in a clinic, which was doubtful. Sherlock never sought out medical aid; if he had, he might have been saved.” He squinted closely at Lestrade. “I want to _meet_ this man. Insane or not, if he has any knowledge of Sherlock…”

 

Lestrade nodded. “Yeah, I think I can do that. Give me a day, and I’ll bring him here. I want some answers, too.”

>>>***<<<

 

Lestrade found John at the park, on his usual bench, feeding the squirrels. He looked up brightly. “Well, hello, Lestrade! Nice to see you again! Any new homicides? You know how Sherlock _loves_ his homicides!” He stopped, turned his face aside, and snickered. “Now, don’t get all offended, Sherlock. You know you do! Been badgering me to go see the Inspector all morning for more information!” Another pause. “No, I’m sure they’re not avoiding pedestrians just to irritate you! You must learn patience!” He turned back to Lestrade. “Sorry, but Sherlock can be so difficult to deal with when he’s on a case and the information is slow to arrive! So, what can I do for you? You don’t normally seek us out just for chit-chat.”

 

Clearing his throat awkwardly, Lestrade said, “I, uh, I’ve been in touch with a certain Mycroft Holmes…”

 

John’s face had been impassive, even anticipatory, but that changed in an instant when his head snapped to the side in annoyance. “Sherlock, stop that! He is still your brother, and to speak of him in such a way… I don’t care if you blame him or not, it just isn’t cricket!”

 

“So, he knows Mycroft…” Lestrade ventured.

 

John turned back to Lestrade. “Well, of course he does! Grew up with him, didn’t he? Not the best of relationships, but…” He stopped and listened, then continued in a conspiratorial whisper, “It wasn’t really Mycroft’s fault. Sherlock was always headstrong, and Mycroft couldn’t do anything to change that…It’s true, Sherlock, so you can just stop grousing about it.”

 

“Mycroft wants to meet you…”

 

John almost jumped out of his seat in response. He looked up in amazement. “Sherlock, calm down! No need for a tantrum! I’m sure he only wants to make sure that you’re all right!” Another pause. “Of course, if you don’t want to go, we won’t go, but I really think you’re doing him a disservice.” He watched as something sat down again, then returned to Lestrade. “I’m so sorry, Lestrade, but Sherlock won’t have it.”

 

“Would you be willing to go…alone?” Lestrade inquired, unsure of the response.

 

John considered, listening to something before responding. “Sherlock says I can go where I want and do what I want, but he doesn’t have to come with me. I’m perfectly fine with it, Lestrade.”

 

Lestrade nodded. “Great. How about tomorrow? Around 2? At the Diogenese club?”

 

John smiled cheerfully. “That’s fine, Lestrade. See you then.”

 

As he left, Lestrade had a funny feeling things were about to take a strange turn…


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will John end up at the Diogenes Club or the insane asylum?

“So, where is he?” Mycroft demanded, thumping the floor with his umbrella in emphasis.

 

“I’m afraid I don’t know, sir,” Lestrade admitted. “He seemed eager to come, even though Sherlock wasn’t…”

 

Mycroft just about burst. “Hah! Just like my dear brother to avoid the issue. He was always impervious to my attempts at intervention. The only things that ever interested him were his experiments and his criminal investigations.”

 

Lestrade’s ears perked up. “What did you say? About criminal…”

 

Mycroft waved his hand in dismissal. “Oh, he just loved to research unsolved crimes and solve them for fun, based on the existing data. He would go on about how the police were idiots who couldn’t fine their arse with both hands.” He leaned in and continued, “He could have been anything, Inspector. A scientist, a philosopher, and artist…and he chose to waste his skills on true crime novels! _Pah_!” He settled his considerable mass back in his chair again.

 

“Hmph. That explains a lot,” Lestrade admitted. He brought out his mobile and called the station. “Donovan? This is Lestrade. Look, John Watson was supposed to meet me here…look, call him a freak one more time and you’ll be pounding a beat again…fine, just don’t do it again. He may be weird, but he’s brilliant and we need him. Now, I need you to go to his sister’s house and…WHAT? Say that again!”

 

Mycroft leaned forward again, this time in some alarm. “What? Has something happened to Sherlock?”

 

Lestrade shook his head no, then held up a hand to silence him. “Fine, whatever. I want you to go over there and bring him here, immediately. I don’t care what the sister says, I want him HERE!” He keyed off his mobile and sighed wearily.

 

“Well?” Mycroft demanded, eyeing the policeman warily. “Are they bringing him?”

 

The Inspector nodded. “Yeah, but there may be a bit of a row about it. Seems the sister called the bobbies to take Mr. Watson to St. Barts for a psychiatric analysis prior to commitment. Says he attacked her with a chair the other day and pushed her against a wall today, even though the girlfriend says he didn’t touch her. I’ve sent my sergeant over to pick him up and bring him here. I thought yesterday that, maybe, we needed some expertise, so I requested that Mr. Watson’s psychiatrist should come to the meeting, as well. Just in case, you understand.”

 

Mycroft nodded. “Satisfactory. We need to know if this fellow is delusional or…” He shivered, despite the warmth of the room.

 

Lestrade nodded as he sat down to await the arrival of his officers and John Watson.

 

>>>***<<<

 

“Such a lovely place!” John said admiringly. “Beautiful architecture and furnishings, but so quiet! I prefer the jovial familiarity of the pub, to be honest.” He smiled beatifically.

 

Mycroft eyed him with suspicion before rapping his umbrella against the floor. “ _Doctor_ Watson! How do you know my brother, Sherlock Holmes?”

 

John raised his eyebrows as he swung around to face the glowering Mycroft. “Ah, you must be Mycroft. Sherlock’s description doesn’t do you justice. Now I understand his nickname for you.”

 

Drawing himself up to his full height in his chair, Mycroft challenged him. “And what, exactly, does ‘Sherlock’ call me, _Doctor_?”

 

“Fatcroft,” John returned, innocently. “I’ve always told him it was rude, but Sherlock never cares about such things.”

 

All the color drained out of Mycroft’s face as he yelled for Wilder, who promptly supplied another brandy, then didn’t blink twice when Mycroft ordered yet another.

 

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath. _That_ made Wilder blink twice. “You see, I have _always_ had a bit of a weight problem and Sherlock would call me that whenever I tried to discipline him.” His eyes took on a misty, far-away look for a moment before they locked, laser-sharp, back on John. “How did you learn of this? Where did you meet this ‘Sherlock’?”

 

“Well, now, that’s the strangest part of it all,” John reflected. “One day, I was taking a walk in the park, contemplating suicide, which I did a great deal after being invalided out of the armed forces, when I fancied a sit on a park bench, for some reason. There, I met the oddest man; he said his name was Sherlock, and that he was a pooka.”

 

Everyone in the room, except for John’s therapist, Ella, said, in unison, “A _what_?”

 

John smiled. “A _pooka_. Yes, I, too, thought it was an odd thing to say, as I had never heard of it before. He said he had decided to come to me because I looked like I could use a friend and, as he had had none during his life, he didn’t want me to end up like him.” His grin widened. “My, but my life has been so much more interesting since he joined me! Sherlock is a fascinating person!”

 

“A pooka,” Mycroft muttered.

 

“’E’s insane. Tol’ ya,” Donovan opined.

 

“He needs to be committed! He’s violent and dangerous!” Harry yelled.

 

“He’s said this before,” Ella stated. “He’s always been consistent on this point.”

 

Lestrade’s mouth opened like a fish gasping for air, then snapped shut. He yanked out his mobile and keyed in one word, then hit send. After a moment, he read, “According to the dictionary: _Pooka_. "From old celtic mythology; A fairy or restless spirit in animal form, always very large. The Pooka appears here and there, now and then, to this one and that one. A benign, but mischievous and curious creature. Very fond of crack pots, rum pots, and how are you, Inspector Lestrade?"*

 

He almost dropped the mobile. Mycroft glowered. “Not amusing, Lestrade.”

 

“N-n-no!” Lestrade stammered. “Take a look!” He handed his mobile to Mycroft, who studied it with growing astonishment. Then he handed the mobile back and roared, “SHERLOCK!”

 

“He can hear you just fine, you know,” John replied, politely. “No need to shout.” He turned to the detective. “Oh, by the way, Inspector; you might want to investigate a ring of loan sharks in relationship to those hit-and-run deaths. You might find that all the victims—there will be more on your desk by the time you get back to your office—had to sign an insurance policy with the ring leader promising that, if they couldn’t pay back the loan with the extraordinary interest being charged, the ring leader would receive the payout from a life insurance policy, thereby discharging the debt. They just didn’t know that the ring wasn’t willing to wait until they died of natural causes; they simply accelerated the process by way of hit-and-run accidents.” He shrugged and smiled pleasantly at Lestrade’s gaping expression. “Sherlock’s a genius, did I mention that? Always a pleasure to be involved in his work. Maybe, one day, I’ll write up his cases properly. He would like that, I think…”

 

“ _SHERLOCK_!!!” Mycroft howled as he staggered to his feet.

 

John winced. “He says to shut it, Mycroft.”

 

“WHERE IS HE, YOU POINTLESS LITTLE MAN?” Mycroft yelled at John. He took an advancing step toward the smaller man before inexplicably staggering and falling back into his chair with a thud and a very surprised look. “Someone just pushed me!”

 

John turned to his right and said, “Sherlock! That wasn’t right! You _know_ he’s just upset…Yes, of _course_ , and I appreciate it _greatly_ , but, _still_ …”

 

Harry pointed excitedly at Mycroft. “That’s the same thing that happened to me the other day, only I was pushed into a wall! WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON HERE?” she yowled like an angry cat.

 

John sighed. “I’ve tried to tell you all, Sherlock doesn’t like it when someone treats me unkindly. He’s my friend, and he… _protects_ me,” he responded with a gentle smile upwards. “He says he was treated unkindly while he was alive and can’t bear to see someone treat _me_ like that.”

 

“Sherlock…” Mycroft whispered. “Sherlock, I tried…I tried _so hard_ …” His eyes grew misty again.

 

“Oh, stop sulking, Sherlock,” John admonished him. “You _know_ he meant well. You admitted to me yourself that you were reckless and obstinate.” He listened, then turned to Mycroft. “He says he doesn’t blame you; you were just so _annoying_ …”

 

“Hah!” A giant, single laugh burst from Mycroft’s chest upon hearing this. “I guess…I guess, maybe you are right, Sherlock. I tried to help in my own way…”

 

“You’re insane, all of you!” Harry interjected. She walked around the room, waving her arms. “You see? Nothing here! There’s no Sherlock, there’s no god-damned Pooka, there’s no…” She jerked forward suddenly and screamed, “WHO KICKED ME? Which one of you bastards kicked me in the arse?” She looked around to see that no one had moved and she blanched.

 

“You were being unpleasant,” John pointed out. “Sherlock _hates_ that.”

 

Harry’s face darkened. “Fuck you, Sherlock,” she growled, just before jerking forward again. “STOP THAT!”

 

Ella, comfortably ensconced in an upholstered chair, stated, “Group hysteria. Amazing…” before she grabbed the back of her head and yelled, “HE HIT ME!”

 

“You were denying his presence,” John noted. “He hates that, too. He says he’s perfectly real, even the rabbit ears, which I, personally, think are quite attractive on him.” He turned and smiled upward. “You’re welcome.”

 

“How can you see and hear him, but we can’t?” Mycroft asked, his voice full of wonder.

 

John shrugged. “I don’t know. I just believe in him, that’s all. When I call, he comes.” He listened politely, then added, “He says anyone can do the same. You just have to believe. It’s one of those things people have lost sight of; there’s a whole other world out there that we’ve convinced ourselves doesn’t exist because we can’t see or touch it. Well, I can do both, maybe because I was ready to give up on the so-called ‘real world’. Sherlock saved me, and I’m obliged to him.”

 

Even Ella seemed stunned. “I’ve been staring at a microscope when I should have been looking at the stars.” She turned her gaze to John. “Would Sherlock be willing to talk to me, too? Or just people he knows?”

 

“Oh, he’ll talk to anyone, but he’s kind of an introvert, so it’ll only be for short periods. He says he likes me because I don’t ‘tax’ him too much. I just enjoy his company, and he enjoys mine, that’s all.”

 

A mystified silence fell over everyone in the room until Harry stated, bluntly, “This is all shite. My brother is crazy…”

 

This earned her a third, and more forceful, kick in the arse.

 

“ALL RIGHT, YOU’RE REAL, STOP KICKING ME!”

 

“Then be nice to John,” a deep voice came back and, just for a moment, _he_ shimmered into view, rabbit ears and all. Then he was gone.

 

A couple of big, fat tears rolled down Mycroft’s face. “Sherlock…Will you…will you come to visit me sometimes?” An amazed expression transformed his face from sad to hopeful. “You…you will? Thank you. _Thank_ _you_ , little brother.”

 

John grinned. “Yes, Sherlock, it’s called ‘sentiment’. You should try it sometime; I think it would be a good look for you.”

 

Harry threw her hands up into the air. “Great. Now I’ll have _two_ of them in the house.” Her head jerked oddly. “STOP HITTING ME, YOU BUNNY-EARED BASTARD!”

 

“John,” Mycroft said, more gently than anything he had ever said before, “I would be pleased to let you stay in my home or, if you wish, I can provide you a stipend so you could afford a flat and all necessities, along with your pension. I know a very nice landlady down on Baker Street with a lovely flat to rent.”

 

“Well…” John considered before replying, “Sherlock says I should take you up on that while you’re in a giving mood, so I guess I will. The flat would be best, and thank you.” He looked up again. “No need to look so amazed, Sherlock. He’s your brother, after all.”

 

Lestrade stepped forward. “John, if you and Sherlock wouldn’t mind, I’d like you to come by the station sometime. I’ve got some cases that are languishing…”

 

“It would be our pleasure, Inspector,” John replied brightly. “Sherlock is quite eager to get started. He says all this sentiment is rotting his teeth. Shall we go now?”

 

Lestrade nodded and, before they left, he checked his mobile for incoming calls from the office. He looked up, mystified. “Two more hit-and-run cases reported while I was here. How did you…?”

 

“Sher-r-rlo-o-ck,” Harry drawled, rolling her eyes. Mycroft smiled and nodded in agreement.

 

John looked up and smiled. “Let’s be on our way now, shall we?”

 

And, as John and Lestrade reached the door, it opened on its own.

 

 

*paraphrase from the movie “Harvey”, 1950.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Silly, wasn't it?


End file.
